Nixon in China
by EnricoDandolo
Summary: Royal pretence is what gets her in, she seeks refuge in audacity. The only concession to modesty, a gilded filigree mask torn silently from the hands of a lady, the only concession to safety, a bloodied sword.


_News_

 _Has a kind of mystery_

 _When I shook hands with Chou En-Lai_

 _On this bare field outside Peking_

 _Just now the whole world was listening!_

News travelled fast in Thedas these days, and by the time Antivan presses sent their first truths around the globe, news had already perched on every chantry belfry. The darkest cavern, the farthest desert: who had eyes and ears could not but learn. The sun eclipsed – the heavens sundered – the flame relighted – some closer to her heart than others.

Echoes of happening are more reliable than that which is observed. Hope is more than reason, she finds, and points out to herself that, out of the many fine qualities she possesses – has claimed – _reasonableness_ is not the first that ever came to anyone's mind. Her throbbing heart demands for blood, and blood there must be.

Change, and light. She is reborn with purpose, as tireless rides take her southwards. Three horses die under her, it does not matter. The fury of the Fade itself shall not withstand her in this matter. By the time she arrives, the blood of the guards is just another stain on her mantle, the wire's advantages meaningless to those of the dirk.

Royal pretence is what gets her in, she seeks refuge in audacity. The only concession to modesty, a gilded filigree mask torn silently from the hands of a lady, the only concession to safety, a bloodied sword.

Orbs, prying, follow her, avoid her, none dares look at her, but everyone stares.

Mud follows where she goes, marble is stained with shed blood. She is put in mind of long-neglected memories, halls she has desecrated, and halls she has claimed. This hall holds no trophies of her triumphs, no blood-stained banners of her foes are mounted here. Someone else's victories are feted here, with canapés and drinks.

Antiva might call them heroes of a bygone age, but for the nonce they must be bygone heroes for the present. In time, future's saviours might be more palatable to those whose palates are so refined as those which designed the canapés.

No one holds her, no one dares. Maybe, she realises, she is not here, not in their truth, not in their reality. She approaches, mask in hand, with heavy steel steps. The world watched and listened: she must seize the hour and seize the day. A familiar face in an unfamiliar uniform, talking dispatches and rapports from the perimeter of the perimeter of the perimeter. And there – there – and there –

There, Her. Flames cannot touch Her sacred flesh, she holds with the certainty of oracular faith, and a flameburst She is: calm, and tender, and comforting; consuming, destroying, her death and dearth. Blood demands for blood, with all the furious envy of a jealous loving god.

In a bow as foppish as it is intentional, a call-back to passed-by days when such acts could yet provoke soft laughter, she stands before Her, "Mme l'Inquisitrice, a dance, if I may?"

Cruelty is not made from malice, but from carelessness. Distraction, ignorance, foolishness: a greater indicator, and a greater pain, than hatred. The one – expected, to be guarded against, polarising; the other – unintentional, subconscious, nagging. "I am quite busy at the moment, Mme, but I shall be at your disposal in an hour." When she had always been at Her disposal.

Property is a notion she rejects, unless it is hers, and then except for Her. She knows, knows all too well, that ownership alienates. But the primal her does not read all that much, and knows that it knows nothing, in pride, and does not hesitate in mixing the maculate cone, philosopher's hemlock. Or drinking it? A forceful kiss, violation, perhaps. A wakening call, and a cry for help from one who's drowned in a sea of flame. Gasps all around, rough hands that could not hope to separate them on her shoulders.

Unrequited. She stumbles back from her, eyes wide, so wide. A whisper, "you, it's you", tears, a burning flame on her cheek. "What are you doing here, why now, why now?" A roguish grin, despite the pain, there will be more blood. War demands setbacks, and she has certainly always desired peace (there's a parable there). "I'm at your side," she tells Her, "I've always been. I won't abandon you now." – "You already have. How dare you?"

Perhaps her truth is different, as well. Context is important.

Perhaps her truth is the same, in truth. The mind is a plaything of itself, a book constantly rewritten and reshaped. The Fade, a computing copy.

"Your truth may be mine," she tells her, tenderly, "but my narrative is different. Suffering, separation, dearth and desert: privations to give You what You deserve, that You might smile again." – "My smile is a flame you lit. Andraste has shown me: the Maker's throne is scorched by his light, blackened, occupied by Sacred Motherhood, by Science, by Poetry, where you are not. Will you not stand beside me, once again, that the world might see?"

 _And though we spoke quietly_

 _The eyes and ears of history_

 _Caught every gesture …_

* * *

This is Hawkecest, in case you couldn't tell.

Basically, born of a lengthy conversation with the formidable Sumenya on dA. I like to think it makes perfect sense, but it's not very coherent. Nixon in China is the name of an opera by John Adams, and that's where the start and ending quotes are from (from President Nixon's aria "News", to be precise). There's also an unsubtle Morrowind reference near the end. Probably set in the same AU as my OS Threnodies, but in a vastly different style. Also, necromantic puppies, if you look closely.


End file.
